The pavilion was no longer a council hall.
It was a womb.
The banners of kingdoms floated half-soaked in nectar, their sacred sigils smeared and dripping. The long marble table where rulers once argued strategy had become a breeding altar, its surface slick with golden cum, its legs sunken in a flood that reached nearly to the waist.
Every ruler knelt.
The Caliph's jeweled crown bobbed crookedly in the flood as he bent forward, drinking greedily, beard thick with sticky sweetness. His swollen cock swung heavy with every gulp, spurting into the flood so his seed mixed with Father's, making the tide heavier, hotter. His guards, stripped bare, swam like beasts, rutting blindly against one another.
